Chapter 2: The Story She Was Given
Jason found Maya at the far end of the school’s front walk, where the afternoon sun flashed off car windows and the buses coughed black exhaust into the heat. He stopped several feet behind her. She had one hand hooked through her backpack strap and the other closed around the strap’s frayed edge.
“You don’t have to answer me,” he said. “But I can try.”
She turned. “Try what?”
“To answer your question.”
For a moment, she watched him as if she expected a speech. Then she looked past him toward the parking lot.
Jason’s mouth had gone dry. “I thought I was doing what you needed. Your mom was gone. The bills were piling up. I took the job because I thought I could get us steady again.” He rubbed his thumb against his palm. “And I trusted Evelyn when she said you were fine.”
“You didn’t ask me.”
“No.” The word came out low. “I didn’t.”
A bus groaned at the curb. Students surged around them, laughing and shoving, while Maya stood still in the stream as if the crowd knew to leave a space around her.
“I kept telling myself it was temporary,” Jason said. “Then I let temporary become normal.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the truest one I have.”
Maya’s gaze dropped to his hands. “You could’ve come.”
“I should have.”
“You could’ve called me.”
“I should have done that, too.”
She turned away again. Jason let her take three steps before he followed—not close enough to crowd her, not far enough to pretend he hadn’t come after her.
“Maya. Would you tell me what you needed?”
She gave a short, humorless laugh. “You mean before you decide if I’m lying?”
“No. I mean so I know.”
Her shoulders rose and fell. Then she stopped beside a low brick planter. She unzipped her backpack, shifting aside a battered binder and a pencil pouch with a broken zipper. From an inside pocket, she pulled a small spiral notebook. The cover had been softened at the corners, the paper rippled where it had gotten wet.
“This isn’t everything,” she said.
Jason didn’t reach for it. “Can I look?”
She flipped it open herself, keeping her fingers on the page.
The handwriting was small and pressed hard into the paper.
August 18 — shoes. Evelyn said Dad wouldn’t pay for more until next month.
Below it:
September 6 — medicine refill. She said I needed to stop asking him for things.
Then:
January 11 — school fees. Grandma said she already asked Dad and he said no.
There were more entries. Dates, amounts, brief notes written in a hand that grew tighter toward the bottom of each page. A pair of sneakers. A field trip fee. A prescription. A calculator for math class.
Jason recognized some of the dates. He remembered transfers around the start of school, money sent after Evelyn said Maya needed something. He remembered other months only as numbers passing through a banking app while he worked late shifts and tried not to think about the empty chair at home.
He kept his hands at his sides.
“I sent money those months,” he said, then heard how quickly he’d reached for the proof. “I’m not saying that fixes anything.”
Maya turned a page. “You recognize the dates?”
“Some of them.”
“So you sent money.”
“To Evelyn.”
“Right.” She closed the notebook. “That’s what I’m saying. You sent it to her. You didn’t send it to me.”
The words landed harder than accusation. Jason could have told her the account had been the arrangement, that he’d believed the money went where it was needed. He could have pointed out how often he’d asked Evelyn whether Maya was all right.
Instead, he looked at the worn cover under Maya’s thumb.
“Does writing it down help?” he asked.
“It helps me remember what she said.” Her chin lifted. “People keep telling you things didn’t happen the way you remember them.”
Jason felt a chill move through him despite the hot air. He could ask who else had said that, what else she’d been told, why she’d kept the notebook hidden. He could turn her careful offering into an interrogation.
He didn’t.
“Thank you for showing me.”
Maya slid the notebook into her bag. “You don’t get to use it to prove you’re right.”
“I won’t.”
“And a bank screen can’t undo years.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I keep needing to hear it.”
Her expression shifted, not softening exactly, but losing some of its sharpness. She adjusted her backpack, and the strap creaked where the stitching was coming loose.
Jason looked toward the curb. “Do you want a ride home?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not going to your house.”
He nodded, though he hadn’t meant to suggest that. “I understand.”
“No, you don’t.” She faced him fully. “Home is Evelyn’s house. It’s where my stuff is. It’s where I sleep. It doesn’t mean I’m saying what she did was okay.”
“I understand that part.”
Maya seemed to weigh the answer, then glanced toward the street. Traffic rolled by in a bright, noisy rush.
“Are you staying in town?”
“My flight’s in three days.”
“That’s soon.”
“Yes.”
She looked down at her shoes. One sole was peeling near the toe. Jason’s gaze caught there, and he forced it back to her face before she could mistake concern for another kind of inspection.
“There’s a diner on the corner,” he said. “We could get something to eat. Today, tomorrow—whenever you want. Or not.”
“Tomorrow.”
The answer surprised him. He kept his face still.
“Okay. Where?”
“Somewhere public. I’ll pick.”
“You pick.”
“And you don’t come to the house.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t call Grandma first and tell her what I showed you.”
The promise rose too fast in him—of course, I won’t—and this time he made himself consider the weight of it. He could already picture Evelyn’s face when he asked about the form. He could hear the questions crowding his throat.
“I won’t talk to her about this behind your back,” he said.
“Not even to ask what happened?”
“Not unless you say it’s okay.”
Maya held his gaze. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
She zipped her backpack. “Then tomorrow. I’ll text you the place.”
Jason started to ask for her number, then stopped himself. She noticed.
“You don’t have it?” she asked.
“No. I don’t.”
Her eyes flicked away. After a moment, she took out her phone and held it toward him. “Put yours in.”
He typed his number carefully, then handed the phone back without calling himself or checking whether it worked.
Maya looked at the screen. “I’ll message you.”
“I’ll be there.”
She began walking toward the bus stop. Jason stayed beside the planter.
At the corner, she turned back. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her backpack.
“If you go behind my back and confront Grandma,” she said, “I’m not meeting you again.”
Jason felt the urge to reassure her with something sweeping and permanent. He swallowed it.
May you like
“I won’t,” he said.
Maya watched him a beat longer, then turned toward the waiting bus. Jason let her go without following. Tomorrow, he understood, wasn’t forgiveness. It was a place and a time she had chosen—and a promise she would be watching him keep.
